Just Trust Me, Alright?
by Deikus-Is-Hellbound
Summary: England has caused some time anomaly to disrupt himself. Now, America is stuck babysitting all these different Englands and his hands are far too full.
1. Chapter 1

" _Bleeding-_!" The rest of Arthur's curse is lost as he swings a punch straight into France's face and it lands on him square in the nose. Alfred is too stunned to move - moments before, he had seen years melt off of England's face and body. It had happened so quickly; the frenchman hadn't even noticed. But ever since he and England had been spending so much time together Alfred has gotten a sense for when some of England's weird magic mumbo jumbo was permeating the air. He'd known something was off when the air suddenly felt electric and when he'd glanced over toward the man after ordering his drink, England was not the same. Alfred had no choice but to observe as England adopted an adorably pouty look of confusion. His eyes grazed over his surroundings, paying no heed to much until they snapped to Francis, sitting beside him. And everything from there had led to Francis now clutching his bleeding nose, staggering away from England as he attempts to not fall on his face off the barstool. "What in the devil is going on here? What have you done, _Francis_?" The man - well, boy- spits the name as if it's not even worthy of being on his tongue. Francis sputters around blood, staring wide eyed and incredulous at England. Alfred can't blame him, with Arthur straight up punching him out of nowhere. But Alfred can see understanding dawn on France's face as he gets a good look at the smaller nation. He's noticed too. But how could he not? Where England's cheeks used to be hollowed, they're full and round, and where Arthur's eyes were so distant and cold, this Arthur's eyes are alive and hostile. And those thin lips curling up into a smug sneer - god okay Alfred quit it. When France doesn't answer it only seems to rile him up. Storming forward he manhandles France by the front of his shirt, jerking him close so he can invade the man's space.

America gulps. He definitely doesn't know how he ended up in this situation.. He's also not sure if it's a turn on or if it's actually scaring the living shit out of him. It's just a drastic change from the man that he knows so well. The man that he loves. But Alfred'll be damned if this guy isn't a riot. The way he sneers at Francis, and the way that Francis nearly quivers at it, has Alfred completely dumbfounded. The victimized country throws Alfred a panicked glance, as if begging him to intervene, and Alfred's caught between doing so.

It's all England's fault he's like this. Some sort of magic bullshit here and there and Alfred had literally seen the age melt from Arthur's face. He's not sure if his Arthur has gone back in time or if this is just...Arthur now, until the spell wears off and time rights itself, but apparently for the time being, this is what Alfred is stuck with.

"Mon ami," Francis stammers, "surely we're past this by now, right?" He must recognize whatever time period this Arthur is from, and by his guess they weren't on great terms back then.

"What's the matter, old boy?" Arthur taunts, "too scared to pick a fight with me anymore?" Even though Arthur's a few inches shorter than Francis, he seems to overwhelm the other man entirely. Arthur drags his tongue tantalizingly slowly over his lips in a way that nearly has America wishing _he_ were in France's shoes right now, and clenches a fistful of the frenchman's shirt. Seeing him lean in however, lips parted in preparation for yet another taunt, Alfred decides that it's time to reign in whatever wild animal he's managed to land himself in care of. Alfred places a strong hand on Arthur's shoulder, pulling him gently away from the frenchman who looks like he could go drink his entire wine cellar after these past few seconds. Arthur's predatory gaze slides directly over to him, and for a moment Alfred is started to find no recognition in them. But, of course he wouldn't know who he was, America reminds himself. This Artie is probably not old enough to have met him quite yet.

There is, however, a hazy cloud of lust in those bottle green eyes. A sort of lust that makes Alfred uncomfortable nearly immediately. Especially when it drops to his crotch for a brief second.

"And who might _you_ be?" Despite his initial discomfort, Alfred throws a huge grin at the other man, steering him away from Francis.

"My name's Alfred." He attempts to hide his deflatedness at being forgotten. "I'm gonna take you home." Arthur raises an eyebrow at America like he's so full of it that he's about to burst open.

"Will you now?" England leans forward, now invading _his_ personal space with an aura that is nothing but predatory. Alfred does his best not to lean away from this England, trying to stay firm so maybe the man will listen to him.

"I think it'd be best." Alfred ventures, only to be shut down immediately by England's hot breath against his cheek.

"And I think it best not to order me around." His voice is nearly husky in Alfred's ear, and the boy's resolve wavers. How is he going to get Arthur out of public?

"Or what?" It's out of his mouth before he's even really thinking about it, and as soon as he registers that he's said it, Alfred immediately regrets it. Abort mission. Abort, abort! England chuckles deeply in his throat, something that has Alfred feeling like he should probably cross his legs, and reaches for something in his belt. Alfred watches as his hand grasps for something that is not there, and the confusion clouds that lusty, mischievous expression for half a second as he glances down at his waist.

The lapse was long enough that Alfred could have taken advantage of it. He could have if he'd been thinking with his brain instead of the rest of his whole damn body.

And Arthur proves his brain to be in far more functioning condition because he slams his elbow into Alfred's stomach mercilessly, simultaneously knocking the breath from his chest and knocking his ass from the stool. America coughs as his head cracks against the floor and the bartender rushes to see if he's alright. He hears Arthur shove Francis into the bar for good measure.

"Fuck." He mutters, rubbing the sore spot on his head with a pout. The door to the bar has already slammed shut after Arthur, and he knows that he needs to go find him before - oh god _cars._ If this Arthur doesn't know who he is, he definitely doesn't know what cars are. But when the hell did he get so _strong?_ Christ. "Yeah, yeah," he brushes the worried bartender off, "I'm good." And he takes off into the night. Arthur's hesitating at...everything, paralyzed at the mouth of the alley as he absorbs London. Of course, he wouldn't know that it's London. The door clicks shut behind Alfred and Arthur's gaze snaps to him, and the boy darts off around the corner. Alfred swears at his own negligence. He takes off after Arthur anyway - god he's going to run into traffic! Is he even as drunk as his England had been a minute ago? He doesn't even know - shit this is the worst!

America charges after Arthur who is weaving through pedestrians like they're nothing more but traffic cones, and Alfred is having a hard time keeping up with his agile, lithe body. America is not as small and not nearly as narrow.

"Arthur! Arthur please wait!" He calls after the nation, and at this the man seems to stutter, throwing a glance over his shoulder. "Sorry, sorry- Hey!" The fatal moment comes when a car drives by, and Arthur stalls in his tracks, petrified at what must seem like a huge steel monster hurtling toward him at speeds he's never even seen before. Alfred parts the crowd as Arthur backpedals from the street, looking absolutely clammy. The shorter man smacks into his chest, eyes wide.

"What the fuck was that?!" Alfred thinks that his voice sounds near to cracking, but he supposes he can understand.

"If you wouldn't have run away-"

"Where am I? How do you know who I am?" He interjects. "I demand you explain!" Alfred rolls his eyes, blowing a puff of hair out of his face.

"Well if you'd shut up a minute -" The man gasps as the lights in an apartment behind them flip on and his eyes follow the tall building all the way up twenty stories. Alfred places a hand on England's shoulder. "Arthur, come on, let's get you home. I can try to explain everything there."

"Who are you?"

"Would you stop with all the questions?" Alfred complains, groaning. "I told you I'd explain but first -"

"Well you can't bloody well expect me to just go with you!" Arthur shoves at his grip, and America finds that he has to put up more of a fight to keep it in place than usual. What's with that?

"Arthur - I'm your boyfriend." His eyebrows furrow deeply and his twitchy hands still on America's arm and chest.

"My what?" Alfred purses his lips in annoyance.

"Your boyfriend- er, I guess you don't - I'm your _partner_." The man blinks rapidly, taking a moment to absorb this information.

"My partne- I don't have any courtships!"

"Yes, you do. Now; later in life." Alfred closes his hand around England's arm and hauls him toward the street so he can hail a cab. "We're in London." He continues, waving as a yellow taxi slows in their direction. He can feel Arthur tense in his grip. "Older you fucked up something, I'm guessing - what year are you from?"

"Older me? This isn't bloody London - what do you mean what year?" Arthur looks at him as if he's stupid, but then seems to decide that there are far weirder things going on than Alfred asking what year it is. "1598." Alfred nods - yes that makes a lot of sense.

"Arthur, please just trust me." He says, and impossibly, the nation seems to do so as America leads him into the cab. "I will do my best to explain things to you, but we need to get home first." The man raises his eyebrows as if he doesn't really know what 'home' means.


	2. Chapter 2

The cab ride had been stressful, but showing England to his own sprawling house was another thing entirely. He seemed to recognize it which is a good sign.

"This is home?" He asks with a chuckle, and America helps him out of the cab after paying their fare.

"What do you mean? Did you not live here in 1598?" England smiles wryly.

"It was more of a...winter home, I suppose. Say - if it's not 1598, then what year is it?" Arthur asks him airily, seeming somehow completely unperturbed as Alfred searches for the key that Arthur always finds the damndest places to hide. Of course, he'd always blamed it on the Little Folk and Alfred, at first, had scarcely believed him. Now, of course, there's no reason to not believe him especially since all these shitty, outstanding things are happening. Alfred vaguely regrets being a naysayer ever since his physical age turned to twelve and spouting that science explained everything because maybe if he had listened he could get his Arthur back to the way he was now instead of haplessly trying to entertain the problem on his hands. Begrudgingly, Alfred answers the man as he rifles through Arthur's neatly clipped bushes out front.

"It's twenty sixteen, now." Alfred explains. "You seem rather calm about all this." He hears Arthur snort behind him as he waits impatiently.

"Well, considering all the odd things happening I have no reason to disbelieve you." He rationalizes calmly, and Alfred's hatred for Arthur's ability to remain collected at even the damndest of times rose considerably. "Plus, it's hardly a challenge when I have such," Arthur is suddenly right in his ear, drawing a chilly finger over the nape of Alfred's neck, "delicious company." He doesn't need to look at Arthur to see the smug, lusty smirk on those thin lips. The way his voice positively rolls from the back of his throat has Alfred going rigid. Alfred laughs nervously, shying away from this England's _horribly_ oppressive presence. Just like at the bar, England seems to tower over him even when his physical height is a good few inches shorter. He's perceptive, too, because he takes note of Alfred's discomfort immediately. "Love, what's the matter? Didn't you say we were - what was it? Boyfriends?" That seductive tone is nothing like what he'd hear from Arthur now. Arthur now was generally soothing and gentle at best, or angry and impatient at worst. But never had England spoken to him like _this_. Like he was going to lavish every inch of his body; like he was going to take the American for all he had and leave nothing in return.

Gluttonous, savage, merciless.

England as an Empire. England the pirate. The British Empire which the sun had infamously never set on.

He's unnerving. Alfred feels like this England could swallow him whole and think nothing of it.

"Y-you don't even remember me." He stutters, shying away from this oppressive country and moving to check the window sill for the damned key. The sooner he got England inside the better. Maybe if he just put the other to bed, maybe he would return to normal in the morning, and the effects of everything would revert back and it'd be fine. He'd have his England back; the one who kind of acted like an old fart half the time and just wanted to enjoy his tea in peace and quiet and would scold him about how lazy he was or how loud he was being, but always with a hint of an endearing smile. Not _this._

"So? I'm still the same, aren't I -" he stops to do the math "Four centuries and eighteen years later, is it?" Alfred snorts at that, pushing the man back a little so that he can stand up on the stair railing to look in the gutter above the house. Arthur stares up at him perplexedly; but also expectantly, as if waiting for an answer even though Alfred's doing something that England would normally scold him for -

Well this isn't his England, he has to remind himself.

"You're definitely not the same." Alfred replies chipperly, face brightening up as he spots the copper glint of England's house key.

"I am too;" England replies petulantly, and Alfred chances a glance down at the man who has his hands defiantly on his hips, and dare he say _testily looking up at him?_ "You recognize me as the nation of _England,_ do you not?" America hops down, brandishing the key in triumph. He shoves the key into the lock and is so grateful when the old, chamomile smell of England's home greets him.

"A lot can happen in four centuries, Artie." Alfred teases, putting on a big show of tousling the other man's hair just to feel a little bit like he's in control.

Which was a bad idea, apparently as Arthur grabs him by the hand and twists harshly so Alfred is forced to yield lest he break it. Alfred yelps as the man threatens to tilt even more, and he stares up at the other nation with shocked, pleading eyes.

"Do _not_ patronize me, _Alfie."_ He retaliates, that self-serving sneer curling up on lips that had only ever adored him, "or you'll regret it." Normally, here, the American would poke fun at the vagueness of the threat, but the fact that Arthur had left it up to his interpretation nearly made it even more distressing. This threat doesn't seem empty at all -

He never thought he'd see the day where he missed Arthur's yelling, but compared to this insidious calm he'd take the Brit's angry rants anyday.

"Okay, okay," he acquises, yanking at the Brit's grip on his hand. It doesn't budge.

"What's that, love?" He reiterates, turning further. Alfred resists the need to whimper, because if he does he knows that this Arthur will use it against him.

"I am sorry!" He gushes.

"You're sorry for what?" He leers, leaning in so close that Alfred can feel his breath against his jaw. Arthur's eyes aren't on his face when his throat bobs. His pretentious attitude has Alfred scowling in annoyance.

"Sorry for _patronizing_ you." Alfred spits out nearly venomously. He hears Arthur tsk, and America nearly yelps at the feeling of his hot tongue gliding up the vein of his throat.

"You don't sound very sorry." Alfred swerves so that he's about to jam his free elbow into Arthur's stomach before he can get any farther, but the pirate is too nimble for him, and he dodges.

The move had its intended effect though as Arthur releases the grip on America's wrist and Alfred jerks it back deftly.

"Oh-ho!" Arthur sneers, placing a seemingly gentle hand on Alfred's chest. "Not so terrible, lad." It dawns on Alfred that even minus four centuries, England is still older than him. Hell, the United States is barely even three hundred, and he'd only been alive for a little bit of a century before that. Arthur had been around long enough that even at this point, he was a teen - and a powerful, violent one at that. How much, exactly, had England done before his time? What had he been exposed to, and caused even?

Pleased with the impression he'd left, Arthur strolls oh so casually inside, leaving Alfred in the door, wishing fervently that he had some inkling of what to do, or even how to handle this.

All he can do though, is follow the other teen before he does something Alfred won't be able to fix.

Arthur peruses the house leisurely, stopping briefly at contraptions that he doesn't recognize before continuing on until he reaches the kitchen, which he seems to recognize as such from the dining room table inside. Alfred pads in after the man, a little mopey at being so readily abused by a man who was supposed to be his lover.

But this man isn't his lover. This man is his age, roughly, and eager to indulge himself.

"Bloody hell," he mutters while trying to get into the cabinets, "this damned coat." Fluidly the man shrugs his shoulders and _slithers_ out of it, exposing a younger, taut chest beneath England's white button up. The teen snarls while working at his tie, toeing cabinet doors open with his boots. He deftly pulls open the first three buttons of his shirt and starts rummaging with renewed vigor. He can wager a pretty accurate guess at what England's looking for.

"Are you sure that's a good idea, Artie?" Alfred's tone is almost pleading. He doesn't want to deal with a _drunk_ teenaged England as well. His hostility and creepy sexual assault vibe are more than enough for his culture shock, thanks.

"If you can gander at what I want, then please, direct me." He grumbles, ripping through cabinets viciously as if he were already slightly tipsy, strewing things across the floor in his wake. When Alfred doesn't move, he turns those bottle green eyes onto him, smirking in that devilish manner. "Unless _you'd_ like to entertain me." England moves toward him so lithely, wiggling his hips in a way that he knows will catch the American's eye. Alfred gulps - and he realizes just how much he'd done that tonight - catching Arthur's hands before they assault his chest.

"Arthur, you don't even -"

"I'm not complaining." He interjects, standing up on his toes to meet Alfred's mouth. He's aggressive, but tantalizing tasting of something deceptively sweet -

Alfred shoves the smaller man away from him, pouting petulantly.

"Stop that!" England shoots him an amused smirk. "I'm not going to take advantage of you like that!" Alfred knows England probably wouldn't be too happy about him just sleeping with his younger double, but especially not if he remembers any inkling of what his younger self was like ...trying to entrap him in his sexual wiles.

"It's hardly taking advantage when I offer in the first place." The other man drawls, walking his fingers down America's chest. "A pity, though." England tilts his head to the side in consideration. "Older me hooked quite the suitor." Alfred smiles brightly at the compliment, pretending that this entire thing doesn't make him terribly uncomfortable. "Speaking of, whom are you, _exactly?"_ Alfred knows he isn't referring to his surname.

"I'm America." He states. England pats his chest, his arms, sizing him up.

"You must be quite the country." He muses, prodding here and there. "To have gotten so big." America's about to answer, but Arthur pokes a soft bit of fat near his pelvis, and he's so _ticklish_ that he can't begin to even try to hold in the giggle. Something about this seems to spark the younger man - the weird, heaviness in his eyes brightens just a little and he positively grins, experimentally prodding the sensitive flesh. "And you've got enough food to have a bit of fat, too." He pinches that tender area teasingly, and America swats at his hand, giggling.

"Quit it, Artie!" He whines, but the nation is too fast for him and dodges his swipe to prod the sensitive area again.

"Or what?" He challenges. Alfred grins at him, though, because what he's forgotten is that Alfred _knows_ him, and unbeknownst to the other nation he's had his hands all over Arthur's body before. He knows all those ticklish spots - spots where scars have yet to heal over from various wars, spots that would have him writhing, gasping for breath as he swats at Alfred's tickling assault angrily- sometimes even with a book. And he's willing to bet that some of those spots still work on this Arthur; particularly because this Arthur probably abhors contact even more than the current one. So Alfred swings out of the way and dives his greedy fingers into this Arthur's ribcage, flashing him pearly whites as Arthur shrieks indignantly.

"Or _this!"_ All somberness is lost as he backs Arthur to the wall, tickling the other man mercilessly. "You're no match for me!" He singsongs. "I already know where to look!" Arthur's surprise was written all over his face as he gasped for air frantically. Even though America's got quite the grip on him, and he's weakened from laughter, he still slaps at America's hands with surprising force. But this only spurs America forward, skittering his fingers around the smaller man's back to that spot just above the small of his back. It's an old scar apparently that Antonio had given to him around this time. From Alfred's understanding it had never quite healed properly, and anytime he'd mess with it Arthur would squeal indignantly, whacking him upside the head.

And just as the American planned, with a shout of victory, Arthur's face goes red and he shouts, squirming violently beneath Alfred's ministrations. Alfred sucks in a breath as a violent jolt assaults his groin and he stumbles back with a grunt. Arthur's thin, but unmistakably solid form crashes into him, and with his _dick fucking throbbing_ Alfred doesn't have the presence of self to stable the two of them and they go crashing down to the floor. Instinctively he grips England so the man won't hit the floor too. Arthur's knee slits right in his crotch, but Alfred just dissolves into a fit of laughter, not even slightly ruffled by Arthur's assault.

"You _git!"_ He growls, pinning Alfred's shoulders down. America just continues laughing, boxing Arthur between his legs. The pressure increases on his groin, and Alfred's slightly worried about his little America Jr down there but he's confident that Arthur won't hurt him _too_ bad. "How did you - "

"You forgot!" He laughs, running his hands over Arthur's thighs. "We're _together_ in this time. I know already." Arthur looks perplexed for a moment, as if he can't quite believe it, but then his face falls into a softer set, a look that far better compliments his pretty features; like those pale pink lips pressed into a thin line, and those beautiful, bottle green eyes with just a hint of gold flecks ringing the pupil, accentuated by his startlingly pale skin. Alfred is slower this time, to show he has no malintent, and brushes his fingers over the scar at the man's back. "Antonio, right?" He muses. "1589." He elaborates further; which, thinking of it, this Arthur would have just experienced that only a decade ago, right?

"You weren't bloody bluffing." The smaller nation mumbles, his hand reaching around to brush over America's fingers. Alfred smiles even wider; perhaps he could get this England to trust him after all!

"Nope!" America sing songs once more. "I know almost everything about you!"

"And when did we meet, then?" Alfred raises an eyebrow at the sudden curiosity, but answers anyway.

"We met in the 17th century. 1607, or rather that was when…" America tries to find the words. "That was when you took me in." He decides is an adequate response. England seems to mull this over for a moment.

"Why have I never heard of America?" He ventures again, shifting his knee out of America's crotch to just sit flat on the man's stomach.

"Because I wasn't America yet!" He exclaims excitedly. "You've been to my place though already! You tried a colony! It didn't last though." He adds that last part uncertainly; all things considered he doesn't remember those parts of his history as clearly. Actually, he honestly doesn't count most of the stuff that happened before he met England. That was when all of the good bits started happening. England looks pensive, before his eyes light up in recognition.

"Roanoke?" Alfred smiles wide.

"That's the one!"

"But there was no - that colony disappeared." America snorts, one of the great mysteries of his early days.

"I usually just chalk that up to Natives."

"The indian savages." England primly corrects. America rolls his eyes.

"Please. That's hardly fair." England raises his eyebrows in a testy challenge, but America decides that rather than argue over this topic, they should change the subject. "So, look forward to meeting me soon!"

"You can't be this big, though." England muses, leaning forward to rest his elbows rather uncomfortably on America's broad chest. He doesn't complain, though, because this conversation seems to be going somewhere less violent and more trusting.

"I'm not! Not yet anyway. I get bigger after you take me under your wing!" Alfred smiles at the memories of a simpler time; Arthur visiting him in New York and Virginia, Arthur tucking him into bed, Arthur reading him bedtime stories and telling him of fae and dragons and king arthur with his holy grail (he'd once asked if he himself was King Arthur, but the older nation had only winked cryptically at him in response.) He missed those times, on occasion.

"Ah, so when I meet you; you're just a lad." He muses, resting his cheeks in his palms. Alfred nods, smiling.

"Yeah, nothing more than a kid, really." Arthur takes a gander at him once more, before snorting.

"You grew up nice and pretty, didn't you?" It's Alfred's turn to snort.

"Yeah, I think we covered this already; I'm the most awesome of awesome nations." England's eyes roll rather dramatically at this.

"You're also a twit, it seems. What wonderful taste I have." His comment is dry and disinterested all of a sudden, and where Alfred wouldn't believe that of his Artie, this one is a little bit different. His smile falters.

"Aw, you love me. Promise." Alfred says, fixing his skewed glasses.

"Whatever you say, Alfred, dear." His interest seems to switch after that. "So, about those drinks." Alfred blows out a puff of air at that. It seems that young Arthur is fixated on alcohol.

"Only if you promise not to go running off like before." Arthur seems to consider his serious expression thoughtfully, and for a moment Alfred wonders if he is going to touch him all creepily again, but the Brit merely licks his lips.

"Fine." He agrees. "Only if I get to see what's become of London tomorrow." Alfred pokes his lips out in exasperation; bringing him out and about could be bad. This Arthur, young and pretty, would surely attract more attention than his older self already does. The other also certainly wouldn't listen to a word Alfred says, it's already evident. But there's always the chance that England could be back to normal tomorrow, too. YOLO, right? He grins up at the blonde, picking him up at the waist to remove him from his lap so Alfred can roll to his feet.

"He's got Gin, Brandy, or Rum on hand," Alfred starts rummaging through the liquor he can pick anything out the shorter male is reaching up for the bottle of rum - typical - and unscrews the cap to take a waft of the flavor. This England's emotions are oddly enough not written all over his face like the elder, and Alfred wonders how well he's taking all this. After all he doesn't know this England. It may be the same person but it's basically like meeting someone entirely new, as his mannerisms are nothing like the man he knows now. Where Alfred can normally look into the Brit's eyes and read what he's about to say this boy before him seems completely aloof to him; with a barrier between himself and probably everyone, while he plays it off with smooth charm and his pretty, ethereal face. It's utterly bizarre, and he can't wrap his head around the fact that this man is the man that first meets him in nearly a decade. It's not the England he knew then at all. But there apparently were a lot of sides of himself that England kept from him. Then again, half of this persona is not really what you would raise a child with, after all. He supposes he shouldn't be surprised that England has some sort of rebellious side. He gets into more bar fights in one month than Alfred probably has since...since the Wild West days.

He hadn't realized he was staring until the man in question raises a perturbed brow, sloshing the contents of the bottle around sloppily.

"Are you ready to empty this with me?" He raises the bottle in question. "Hardly seems strong enough to knock a man off his ass, but I guess we can find out." Alfred blinks, and then regains himself with a grin as he plucks the rum from the younger Arthur's hands.

"Well, it's certainly not as stout as it used to be." He laughs. "But we do have some new tricks for drinks now in the twenty first century." He nudges Arthur out of the way with his hip as he heads for the fridge, in search of the soft drinks that he'd convinced the elder Arthur were worthwhile to keep around. Coke, Pepsi, Dr. Pepper, and Gingerale -

"And I think there's some lemon in here - ah! Yes!" Alfred brandishes the drinks on the counter, before pulling down glasses from the cabinet. He's poured quite a few rum and cokes in his day, so he puts those skills to good use, before presenting the simplified cocktail to the seemingly bewildered but curious nation behind him. "Rum and coke - you don't have soda yet, but trust me, it's great!" Alfred takes his own and knocks it back, swishing the carbonated cocktail around in his mouth. Arthur looks down at the drink, sniffing it curiously - to which Alfred rolls his eyes. "C'mon, it ain't poisoned. Just try it." He urges Arthur affectionately, pouring himself another.

"Soda, you called it?" He asks uncertainly.

"Yep!" He chirps. Knocking his glass against Arthur's. "It's delicious!" Arthur eyes him one last time with those big, green eyes, before knocking back a pretty hearty gulp of the stuff.

He spits the drink back out, coughing and sputtering. Alfred bursts out into a peal of laughter.

"What in the blazes-" He chokes. "That _burns."_

"It's called carbonation." He explains. "Drink it slower." Arthur huffs, pursing his lips.

"You drank it fast!" Alfred grins, chuckling.

"Yeah, well I invented it! I'm used to it already." Arthur hums, but seems to rise up to the challenge. He takes another drink. Only a sip this time and Alfred grins when his face sets into something vaguely resembling pleased.

After Alfred acclimated Arthur to soft drinks, he takes to showing Arthur around his house, and the twenty first century customs. Their first stop is the wardrobe, where Arthur rummages through until he finds something that he likes. Surprisingly enough, he finds some skinny jeans in there and a tank top that Alfred is surprised his elder self even owns. Alfred advises him that that sort of fashion is fairly normal right now, and Arthur had marveled at how the jeans felt like a second skin (and Alfred hardly complained that they _looked_ like a second skin too). He shows Arthur through the small library and study, decides to skip the TV, and head straight for the music. Artie has both digital and physical collections, but Alfred thought it would be cool to show him the record player and vinyl. Arthur is readily fascinated by the contraption, and it isn't long before he and Arthur had pulled out the older Arthur's bins and bins of records and started going through them album by album. Alfred had brought the rum bottle in along with various sodas. He'd found that Arthur liked it with Ginger Ale the best, but after a while the pair of them had stopped caring how much soda was really in the glass and started caring more about getting the rum straight from the bottle. Once his head went a little fuzzy he stopped caring how loud and rambunctious Arthur got and he also quit bothering with asking the other nation to keep his hands - and lips - to himself.

Alfred indulges Arthur in many stories about the pair of them, and himself. Arthur laps it all up greedily, intrigued by his own existence. It's somewhere between the Beatles and the Sex Pistols that Arthur starts tentatively kissing him. And then somewhere between the Who and Queen that Alfred starts singing along badly; especially at _Bohemian Rhapsody_ \- and after about the third time the album repeated itself Arthur knew the words as well, and the pair drunkenly attempted to sing along between making out with a long since empty bottle of rum set aside which had now been replaced by both the Brandy and the Gin.

"We- we don't have music like this in m-my time." Arthur slurrs, rolling over onto his side to face Alfred. Alfred uncovers his eyes from his elbow, looking over at the other nation with probably a dopey smile on his face. He's not quite sure why, but even though this isn't his England, Alfred still adores the man and feels like he's known him just as long as he's known his England.. He still stupidly adores those green eyes, those thin pink lips, the gentle curve of his pale face, the elegant curve of his throat, which Al feels the need to trace with his thumb. "Or anyone like you." The nation adds in afterthought.

"Whatcha mean?" He asks, rolling up on his shoulder. Arthur blinks, licking dry, chapped lips.

"You're a twit, Alfred." He laughs, resting his hand on top of Alfred's. "But I can see that you at least give a shit." Alfred laughs, waving that comment away.

"That's not true! Plenty of people c-care about you!" Arthur laughs dryly at that, throwing his arms back above his head.

"Clearly, you don't know the l-line between optimism and naivety." Alfred snorts.

"You're just a..uh. A, um! Pessimist!" Alfred laughs at his own lapse.

"Hardly."

"Uh-huh!" Alfred insists. "You've got all your brothers - "

"Assholes." Alfred pouts.

"W-well! Th-there's Japan!"

"I haven't met any Japan." England insists vehemently.

"Well! What about Franci-"

"Don't _mention_ that bloody - b-bastard as being my f-" Arthur hiccups and Alfred's shocked to hear a hitch in his voice. "Friend." He finishes in a whisper. "H-he's done nothing but abuse me s-since, fuck who even knows." Alfred rolls over to face the brit once more at the sound of quiet sniffing. Alfred frowns.

"Whaddaya mean? I know y'all fight all the time b-but I know you guys are friends."

"You're mistaken, Alfred." He gets very quiet, sighing shakily. "I've been raped by him more times than I've had a s-simple cup of tea with him." Alfred sombers, confused. "Don't g-get me wrong It's not as if...as if I haven't done more of the same to him and others but I-" He doesn't continue further with that vein of thought, and Alfred aches at the water gathering in England's eyes.

"Hey-" he murmurs, reaching over to pull the younger nation toward him.

"Don't touch me!" He screams, swatting at Alfred's hands.

"Arthur, stop." He murmurs. "It's okay." The other nation shudders, and suddenly Alfred hears him suck in a breath so fast that it nearly sounds painful. "'M here." He murmurs again. "It's okay, Arthur." America knows a little of England's past before meeting him. He'll never forget the first time that the two of them were together England had been nervous and brutally honest. _I've never made love before, Alfred._ He remembers. _You're going to have to be patient with me -_

Nothing had made him sadder to hear. But hearing it from the source is somehow worse. Somehow worse because this England seems so _upset_ while the man he knows now just seems so nonchalant.

"Don't feel bad, I'm here now." Alfred murmurs.

"W-why?" Arthur implores an answer, and all Alfred can think is that he is _way_ too drunk to be having this conversation right now.

"Because." Alfred states, carding fingers through the other man's hair. "I love you."


End file.
